


It's too quiet in this room (I need noise)

by feyrelay



Series: Myster-Man (Mysterio/Peter) [4]
Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Far From Home (2019), Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Age Difference, Flashbacks, Guilt, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mysterio is His Own Warning, POV Alternating, Peter is 18, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Praise Kink, Rough Sex, Spider-Man: Far From Home Trailer, Unhealthy Relationships, Verbal Humiliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-07
Updated: 2019-02-11
Packaged: 2019-10-24 00:37:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17694239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feyrelay/pseuds/feyrelay
Summary: Tony Stark always needs something new to feel guilty about, everyone knows that.After his issues with Mysterio, Peter (now an adult) feels a dark urge to oblige him.That's how he prefers to think of it. (He doesn't want to want this.)





	1. Peter POV

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mezzymet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mezzymet/gifts).



> CNTW = past underage and non-violent noncon/dubcon (due to 16yo Peter not knowing Mysterio's identity; otherwise consensual)
> 
> I do not condone any of these actions by these three characters. Mysterio is the villain and I hope fandom remembers that despite Jake Gyllenhaal's attractiveness, Peter is being emotionally manipulative here, and Tony. Gosh. He's just weak with guilt and a need to 'fix' things for Peter.
> 
> tl;dr: Don't comfort rape victims by sleeping with them. That's wack.

Europe was so not worth it.

All it’s done is prove to him that no matter where he goes, there he is. He can’t escape the feeling of helplessness he’d felt wash over him with the waves in Venice as he’d fought, seemingly side-by-side with some kind of wizard, to take down a monster made of canal water.

He’d been less than helpful, fighting a panic attack brought on by his intense fear of drowning, and afterwards Peter had pushed his way through crowds to get away from his friends and classmates, who had all seen him fight. His secret identity was _toast_. The thought had been too much to handle.

Peter had rounded a corner and collapsed against a wall that was probably older than the United States, before sliding down and sinking to settle on his ass. He knew the whole city was basically on water, but it still felt good to have some kind of _terra firma_ underneath him.

Someone had coughed politely, though, and Peter had looked up into the concerned face of one of the most beautiful men he’d ever seen. The dark hair, the keen eyes, the movie-star smile; wow. ( _The facial hair, the age gap, the mentorly look in his eyes_ , Peter’s id adds, now that he thinks on it with hindsight.)

“You okay, kid?” the man had asked.

“M’not a kid,” Peter had returned, and the man’s easy nod and acceptance of that had emboldened him to add, “And no, I’m really not okay, either.”

“I’m Q,” the man had explained, “…and I have a place around the corner if you want to dry off, have a hot drink? You must have gotten splashed from that fight, huh? I didn’t see it, but I’m just assuming; I was doing CPR in the restaurant over there. Some lady had a heart attack when someone screamed about a monster outside.”

 _Oh_. Peter had thought. _This is potentially the last time I’ll ever meet someone who doesn’t know who I am. And he’s clearly a good guy, if he saved someone in the restaurant._

What a nice guy he had seemed, that Mysterio.

\---

Now, back in Queens and a year later, he still can’t sleep. Peter can’t relax, can’t let go of that feeling that he’s broken. Unfixable. Undesirable.

That’s what happens when your summer of love turns out to have been a summer of rape, all along.

That’s what happens when you’re so stupid that you let the villain you’re supposed to be fighting take you out for gelato. Talk to you about his work in Hollywood. Tell you about Venetian history. Fuck you into the musty mattress on the brass bed of his rented summer studio.

That’s what happens when you don’t take Ned’s advice, don’t listen to sense or your own instincts, because you miss your stupidly hot mentor, your OG crush, your hero, your unattainable billionaire boss… when you try to replace him with an illusionist, a pale imitation.

It’s all Peter’s fault.

\---

“It’s not your fault,” Mr. Stark tells him, over and over.

“You don’t know the whole story,” Peter counters. He’s only told the man that Mysterio tricked him, not how. (Not how far.)

“Then _tell me_ the whole story,” Tony forces out, voice a harsh sort of stage-whisper, as if that is all the breath he has to spare in the midst of all this tension.

Peter startles backwards, feeling fifteen and frightened again, though he’s eighteen now. (It feels good to feel so young, though, as if time’s been turned back, and it makes him feel… unhurried. Unsullied.)

Tony must clock the involuntary movement, because his voice gentles, “Okay, okay, Pete. You don’t have to tell me what happened. Just. Tell me what you _need_. Tell me what I can do, to _fix_ things.”

Peter kisses him, hard and demanding, and this time it’s Tony’s turn to stumble backwards. Tony doesn’t kiss him back, just rattles in a harsh gasp, but Peter licks into his mouth anyway, taking greedily for all that he’s pouring his shards into the kiss. (Fix me, fix me, fix me.)

And Tony must hear him, hear the echo of that thought against the shocked silence, because he pushes Peter back (yes, he does), but he also holds Peter there, at arms-length, by the shoulders. His hands are warm and possessive.

Before the older man can fill that silence with denials, Peter explains, “Think of it like this. He corrupted my files. I want you to… overwrite that.”

He thinks it’s a good analogy, but Tony shakes his head. “We’ll get you set up with a therapist, kid; I’m flattered, I really am, but this isn’t about me. It’s about erasing _him_ , and that’s just unhealthy.”

Peter scoffs, “M’not a kid and also, respectfully sir, fuck that. _Cheeseburgers_ are unhealthy; sometimes it’s just what you need, though.”

Besides, Tony still hasn’t let go of his shoulders. His thumbs form two burning points of contact above Peter’s collarbone. Peter hears the older man swallow, hard.

Peter continues, trying a different tack, “Besides, it _is_ about you. I was trying to erase _you_ with _him_ ; it didn’t work.”

And he thinks, oh, was Tony Stark always this way? Did he always cleave so tight to the things that made him feel the most guilt? Was he always so desperate to atone, to repair, to repent that he didn’t know when it would more advisable for him to simply walk away? Tony’s hands tighten on the muscles connecting Peter’s vulnerable, white neck with his weary, strong shoulders.

Peter’s grateful; he finds it grounding. He waits for the current to flow through him safely.

Tony looks at Peter’s eyes, his lips, his stance. It looks like it costs him, drains him.

They go to bed.

(Wherever they go, there they are.)


	2. Tony POV

“How do you want me to be?” Peter asks evenly.

Tony looks up from where he’s sitting, unlacing his own shoes, to show his surprise at such a question. But then his eyes land on Peter and he realizes that Peter is asking him a more practical question than he thought. The eighteen-year-old is standing awkwardly, looking at the king bed with some trepidation.

“Come sit beside me, sweetheart.”

Tony makes quick work of his shoes and socks, and digs his toes into the soft carpet as Peter settles beside him. This time, he gets to control the kiss and he leans into Peter, cupping his jaw and brushing over the younger man’s cheek with his thumb. Peter sighs and Tony presses a quick, open-eyed kiss to the boy’s mouth; it’s like asking permission, or forgiveness.

Peter hums a pleased little noise and it goes over like a balm for Tony’s hesitance, so he initiates a longer, deeper kiss. Tony thinks privately that the way Peter goes pliant for him is both amazing and alarming. The boy is sweet and warm and inexperienced and gives himself over easily; Tony likes it but doesn’t want to. (Doesn’t want to think about how Peter learned this.)

Peter surprises him out of his thoughts by turning his head and catching Tony’s thumb in between his plush lips. They’re so pink that they seem to suck all the color out of the rest of the room as effectively as they’re sucking on his finger, wetting the pad of his thumb with saliva for no other reason than because it’s there. Tony, impossibly hard and near colorblind with it all, presses his thumb against Peter's teeth, mean. (And just because he can.)

Peter moans and Tony’s mouth runs away with him again.

“Look at you. You’re perfect; you know just what to do, even though I know you haven’t done this a lot. A natural,” he murmurs. He knows that Peter tends to flush under praise; he wants to see if that idea extends to this context.

But Peter pulls back, mouth twisting and eyes bright, to insist, “I haven’t done _this_ at all.”

Tony chooses his words carefully even as he gets manhandled by Peter, a bit of the other man’s super strength coming through. He’s laid out in the center of the bed, now, and Peter is working at the buttons of his shirt. “I thought… in Italy… isn’t that what you meant by me overwriting…?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Peter snaps, unbuckling Tony’s belt and ripping it out of the loops.

Tony winces as he hears the buckle bang against the wall where Peter’s flung it; that’s gonna leave a dent, surely. He holds his hands palms-out, placatingly, as he replies, “Alright, alright. It’s just, forgive me, but it kinda seems like you _do_ want to talk about it.”

“Well you’re _wrong_ , sir,” Peter spits, and then rips Tony’s slacks and boxer-briefs down to sink his mouth over Tony’s cock and they both stop talking. Tony can hear that Peter is also working to get his own jeans and briefs off, even as he bobs his head and turns Tony’s mind to mush, and it’s hot and unexpected and it makes him _throb_ and all, but…

And then moments later, Peter is lifting himself to straddle over Tony’s erection. It’s wet only with copious amounts of saliva and Tony starts to worry (‘ _wait, what?’_ ) a second too late, understanding just a bit blunted from the blowjob. He’s not able to stop Peter before the kid is forcing himself down onto Tony’s length, rough and unprepared and punishing for them both. It’s shocking and Tony’s sense of empathy feels Peter’s pain, secondhand.

“Pete, Peter, why - just _hold on, fuck_ \- we can, uh… there’s lube in the-” Tony grits out as Peter starts to ride him like a machine, hellbent. He leans up and tries to catch Peter’s torso in his arms, anything to stop his frantic movement.

“No!” Peter’s voice cracks like a whip, and he uses his strength again to force Tony back down, which is _so not okay_ , but he can take it, he thinks. He can do this for Peter, if it helps. Peter adds, “You don’t get to tell me how I need this. I, I, I need it to hurt. Just. Please?”

Tony blows out a breath, shocked, and he’s not sure at what, really. At the words? At the sentiment? At the rough friction or the slick tears forming in the corners of his eyes? (All of the above.)

Peter is still levering himself mindlessly, up and down, and Tony can’t take this. It’s so tight it’s _bad,_  and he can tell it’s hurting Peter, and _Christ_ – what about a condom? This is all wrong.

Tony draws on his entire well of upper-body and core strength, pecs straining around the triangular nanotech basket, to dislodge Peter. He also takes advantage of Peter’s momentary shock to double-tap his watch and his bracelet, and they shift and coalesce into standalone powered gauntlets. It _might_ be enough to keep Peter down, if the smaller man doesn’t fight too hard.

“Stay down, kid!” he emphasizes, winded.

“What the fuck, sir? You’re gonna hold me down, now, too?” Peter asks, wild.

(Too. _Too?_ )

Peter is panicking under him as Tony questions this and he’s forced to lift his armored hands, not wanting his boy to feel trapped. Tony hangs on with his quads, though, desperate to keep Peter safe from his own panic. He shushes him, “Shhh, shhh. It’s okay. We just need to back up and regroup. You’re too upset, sweetheart. There you go, attaboy...”

Fortunately, Peter allows Tony to keep him down, keep him still.

“Listen, you don’t have to call me ‘sir’. You can call me Tony; we’re there now,” he adds.

And, sure, Peter’s not trying to get up anymore, not trying to throw the heavier man off, but Tony can literally see his pulse hammering in his carotid artery, and the kid is nowhere near calm.

Also, maybe he should stop calling him ‘kid’, even in his mind. (Especially in his mind.)

When Peter speaks, it’s breathy and scared and makes Tony sick to hear. “I don’t understand what the big deal is… I heal right away anyway. It’s almost like, like. It’s almost like it doesn’t matter what happens to me; I’ll always be virgin-tight. So why does it matter, why does it have to count?”

Tony splutters, horrified, “It _counts_ , okay? Your experiences matter, I never meant to imply-”

But Peter cuts in with a dark laugh, chuckling, “No, you don’t understand! I, I, I… I don’t _want_ it to count! It’s nothing, it should _feel like_ nothing. I don’t want. I don’t want you being all sweet and kind and nice and memorable.”

Tony’s body goes cold at that and he has to get up. He can’t be touching Peter right now, he _can’t_. “Look, I’m sorry, I’m not trying to abandon you here, but I’m gonna go sit on the bench. Fuck, Peter, I gotta go sit over there,” he re-iterates helplessly.

“Why can’t you do this for me?” Peter needles, and Tony just about wants to knock his teeth out for it.

Tony breathes deep and even and slow, swallowing the violence. It curdles, black, in his stomach, before it comes back up as inky, lingering words. “You don’t want me to be nice? I get that. We can talk about that. But I’m _always_ memorable. That’s… non-negotiable. Not after everything. You were _dead_ , and then _I_ was dead. We remember. People like us don’t forget. ‘I don’t want you to be memorable’, Christ, listen to yourself.”

“Listen to yourself,” Peter echoes, and he’s matching Tony’s tone note-for-note. “I guess I’d better, huh? Since _you’re_ not gonna listen to me?”

And okay, he’s coming off the bench for that one. He looks at Peter, at how the younger man is still wearing his goddamned shirt and hoodie ( _still_ ) despite having just been riding Tony like his life depended on it, and it pisses him off more. Peter can’t even stand to be all-the-way naked with him, but he expects Tony to read his mind and give him his magical healing cock or whatever, and it just. It burns him, the thought of all that lack of intimacy. All the love Peter is denying himself.

So, he holds out a palm and blasts Peter off the bed and across the room.

It was the lowest setting, so Peter doesn’t go through the wall or anything, but he does collide with it and there’s now a perfectly circular hole in the chest areas of Peter’s multiple layers. Tony stalks across the room, still naked, and checks to make sure Peter isn’t irreparably damaged in any way.

“What the hell, man?” the younger man says with surprise, voice a little thready with shock.

Tony gets right in his face to whisper faux-tenderly, “I thought it didn’t matter, what happened to you? Thought you’d heal right up?”

And with that, he gathers Peter up and takes them into the adjoining bathroom.

They’re gonna do this thing _right_.


	3. Peter POV

They talk in the bath, with Peter leaning back against Tony’s implanted arrowhead and nanotech basket. The water is warm, to loosen everyone’s muscles, but Tony presses a cold-pack to the circular burn on Peter’s chest, though it’s already mostly healed; it was shallow.

To be honest, Peter had found it kind of exciting, being burnt. It had felt visceral, grounding.

“This is how this is gonna go, you little punk,” Tony starts, and then silences Peter’s impending interruption by pressing the ice-pack, hard as a stone, into Peter’s chest. Tony continues, “I know right now, you’re not in a headspace to really know what you want or need. That’s okay; I’m gonna help you.”

He presses his mouth and nose into Peter’s hair, which Peter decides he likes very much, thank you. The older man appears to be waiting for some kind of answer.

“That’s fine. I just want… I want you to feel it all for me, so I don’t have to. I want to just be… there, in my body, connected to it again. Like a doll, like my body is all I am, so I don’t have to worry about my heart and mind and soul and all those other things. I kinda need to just focus on one at a time, right now; I don’t have the energy to run the full gauntlet.”

“I know, sweetheart,” Tony says, handing off the ice-pack so he can focus on running a washcloth along Peter’s skin to wash away the fear-sweat that had beaded up along his hairline.

“I just can’t, you know?” Peter continues, as if Tony had not spoken. “I need it to hurt, because all this stuff is my fault. But I need it to not be scary, too, or else it’ll push me into my mind and-”

“Okay, okay, alright,” Tony cuts in. He’s listening, Peter knows, feels it in his gut. He appreciates, though, that the man appears to have no patience for the way Peter’s thoughts are trying to drag him into a spiral. He keeps cutting him off at just the right moment, calling the PTSD up short like a bad puppy.

( _We’re the same_ , Peter thinks.)

“Alright,” Peter echoes, and Tony huffs a laugh in a puff of breath against Peter’s damp neck.

“You really are the cutest little doll, aren’t you? I could pull your string and make you say anything.”

Peter hums his pleasure, but flounders. “What am I supposed to say to that? You told me not to call you sir, but this isn’t exactly a Tony-and-Peter dynamic I’m feeling either, as if we’re equals.”

The scrub of the washcloth against Peter’s skin gets rougher, at that. “I don’t care to hear your smart mouth, Peter. We’re _not_ equals… you’re a far better man than I am, despite the lip I get outta you.”

And, oh, _that’s_ the ticket. Peter’s skin crawls at the same moment that an ember drops to the pit of his stomach and ignites with a sweet warmth. The praise that he’s always lived for, yes, but forced upon him, almost carelessly? Yes, please.

Peter taps twice to that on the lip of the bath and leaves his hand there, as if it’s been fixed there by some mechanism. He keeps himself very still while Tony finishes washing him. It’s not as though either of them was strictly ‘dirty’; they’re doing this more for the ritual aspect of bathing, he suspects.

Tony seems to give him one last out, saying, “Let me just get this straight, and then I’m gonna do my best to give you what you need, sweet doll, okay?”

“Okay,” Peter replies under his breath. He leans forward in the bath, ready to be done but willing to hear Tony out, as well.

“You want to hurt, yes? Want to be degraded a little?”

Peter would have thought that was obvious. “I just don’t want to be treated like anything bad happened to me. I can’t stand how everyone is since the Restoration, like I need to be treated differently. Especially in light of Myst-... well, in light of Italy.”

He can feel Tony’s hands back on his shoulders again (always hot against his shoulders), and he tries not to feel them like a weight, rather than the comfort they’re meant to be.

“Okay,” Tony agrees as his voice goes a little taut, a little dark, ‘round the edges. “So basically, you’re a little whore who wants me to fuck him like I always wanted to? Regardless of anything else?”

Peter feels that one like a punch. A kiss with a fist, like the song. He nods vigorously, throat closing, mouth snapping shut like the door inside a confessional.

But Tony’s mouth is in full force again and he adds, “You wanna start over? Stranger things have happened.” And then he pauses like he’s not sure he should say it, but Peter holds his breath for a beat, feeling the tension like the press of too-deep water, and Tony whispers, “Is that it? You wanna be fifteen again?”

 _Fuck_.

He gets out of the bath like it’s burned him. Tony’s laugh follows him and clings to him just as the water does. Peter brings it to bed with him like a favorite doll, and ruins Tony’s sheets by flopping wetly right in the center of the bed.

He waits. He hears the drain, thirsty and too loud. He empathizes.

“I wasn’t ready for you to go,” Tony intimates from the door. “I was gonna tell you that this is not how things are normally done. You really haven’t given me enough to go on, or enough tools to keep us both safe. I was also gonna say that you’re going to therapy if it kills us both; however, you’re done talking and done listening for now, aren’t you?”

Peter nods solemnly, meeting his mentor’s dark eyes from across the room. He feels his wet curls flop against his forehead, which rather dampens the impact, but. Words feel wrong.

“Look, I’m sorry, kid, but I’m just doing what I should have done in the first place,” Tony starts, but Peter is _so_ done with talking. He’d tried, once, to think his way out of this, to erase all the little reasons why he shouldn’t be with Tony, to forget about it and outsource the most important thing in his life to a handsome stranger he’d met on the streets of Venice.

Look how that had turned out; he’d nearly gotten them all killed. (Maybe that would’ve been a kindness.)

“Stop, just stop,” Tony says, steamrolling right over Peter’s insecurities as is his wont. “I can see the war in your eyes and I don’t like it. Give me something innocent and clear-eyed to ruin, won’t you?”

“The war is never over; Time screws us all,” Peter replies. (He’s not sure where the words come from, but they feel true.) His eyes refocus on Tony, who has taken a couple of small, hesitant steps toward him. “Can we just pretend it never happened, any of it, just for a little while?”

There’s a pause and then Tony makes the rest of the journey to the bed and the usual spark comes back to his eyes. “Pretend _what_ never happened? Got no idea what you’re talking about.”

It lifts Peter’s spirits marginally, and then he settles into his bones as Tony leans his weight down over him, pressing Peter between two separate damp warmths. Up close like this, Peter can see the doubt and guilt and stress etched into Tony’s face. It makes something shift in him -- it’s a real sudden realization, okay? -- and he thinks, oh, of course.

Of course this is just as difficult for Tony as it is for him. He suddenly really _does_ feel fifteen again, but not in a taboo way. More like, he remembers the taste of constant shame, the feeling of awkward coltishness, the sound of his words echoing around in his head and bouncing off his complete lack of self-awareness.

He smooths Tony's damp, dark hair back away from the man’s forehead in apology. It’s something he’s never had the chance to do before, but the movement feels familiar. “I’m sorry about before; I shouldn’t have tried to use you like that.”

Tony sniffs, and says, “Oh you’re not sorry yet,” a smile of acknowledgement, “...but you will be.”

Peter closes his eyes and sighs as Tony nuzzles into the side of his neck and thinks that he could probably handle that. Then, Tony bites him, right in the meat of his brachial muscle. _Hard_.

“Mother _fucker_!” he says, for the very first time in his life. Tony snorts into Peter’s collarbone.

“I find it intensely amusing that you’re asking me to hurt you when you really have no idea what that means. This really what you want for your first time?” Tony says, and the conceit is heavy in his voice, begging Peter to play along with the idea. (The lie.)

This is _Peter's_ fantasy, his catharsis, after all. (Tabula rasa.)

Peter waits for Tony to lift his face and then he proceeds to bite Tony back, right on the jaw. His teeth shave and rake through the short, thick bristles of facial hair. It’s definitely gonna bruise.

Tony licks his teeth like he’s tasting blood in the water and then backs off to flip Peter like a new leaf.

His pond ripples and he braces his arms against the bed to ask Tony again, “How do you want me to be?”

With no hesitation this time, comes the answer: “I want you to be however you are.”


	4. Tony POV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fucking finally.
> 
> Finally fucking.

Tony lets Peter get comfortable on the bed and takes a moment to himself. The apology had helped of course, but he’s still uncertain. He’s not used to feeling uncertain in bed, especially not when faced with someone as beautiful as Peter. What Peter did earlier, well, it’s really freaking him out.

But then Peter shifts and settles down on his crossed arms, the movement of his body causing the low lighting in the room to linger on the bite mark Tony just left. It’s already fading.

Maybe it doesn’t have to be so hard. He’s always been one to ask for forgiveness, rather than permission. And, Peter had been, well not clear, but at the very least enthusiastic about what he supposedly wanted.

So, really, the only lingering problem is how fucking _mad_ Tony still is. It’s bad practice, but he's gonna let that fuel him. He'll keep it in check, make sure this is still about what Peter needs, but maybe a little extra fire isn’t completely unwarranted, hmmm?

He begins by straddling the backs of Peter’s thighs so he can lean over the younger man and run his hands over the planes of his back and start things out with a brisk massage. It’s always been his preferred method of shifting things to a sexy tone; why fix something that’s not broken? (Why, indeed.)

Peter groans under his ministrations and it’s very gratifying, but Tony’s still pretty worked up about being used like that earlier so he rubs out knots and aches until Peter’s muscles are loose and they’re both relaxed, then he sets himself aside. He makes sure that the first hit lands squarely on Peter’s left ass cheek. He makes sure it hurts.

Tony feels a bolt of cognitive dissonance when Peter doesn’t make a sound. He’d ~~imagined~~ expected a whimper or a choked-off noise, at least.

He does it again, for science. To see if anything changes.

“You can go harder; I can take anything you can give,” Peter mutters restlessly, shifting in the gloom, and _oh no_ that won’t stand. Tony’s not feeling fit to play the rock Peter wants to bash himself against, not again.

Tony redirects Peter with a veritable barrage of strikes, and he makes sure to pepper them at odd angles and off-center, to be as unpredictable as possible. Peter is smart, but crazy beats brains any day. Tony wants Peter to know that he doesn’t have to hurt him, to hurt him.

He thinks Peter likes it that he hasn’t spoken yet, but that’s just too fucking bad.

“I find that I’m not particularly concerned with what you can and can’t take, just now, Peter. Just like you weren’t considerate with me earlier,” Tony laments. He watches the flush spill violently down Peter’s back. Good, he should feel ashamed in Tony’s opinion, but also,  _oh_ , that pink is delicious. It matches the red. He’s Tony’s little valentine of violence.

Peter, wisely, keeps his own counsel. He must know the time for apologies made of words has passed; Tony’s taking this one out on his ass.

“You should have come to me from the beginning and let me set the pace, especially for your first time,” and the open secret of Peter’s past experiences doesn’t even sting, “...instead of trying to do everything yourself like a stupid kid. You should have known you’re too precious to waste.”

Tony smooths his hand up Peter’s spine just to feel him tighten up at the words ‘stupid kid’, temporarily undoing the work of the massage until the man relaxes again. Tony finds he doesn’t care as much as he should especially when his hand finds the back of Peter’s neck. It fits there perfectly.

Even if it hadn’t he would have carved and bent the flesh into shape until it had. He can admit that.

Peter sighs into his own arms and Tony mourns the loss of that breath; if Peter had been on his back, then Tony could have felt the exhale under his palm.

He says as much, hoping Peter’s intellect will follow his train of thought, and he’s not disappointed.

Peter shivers, likely at the image Tony’s given him, and turns his head to offer Tony his pulse, the invitation of his carotid artery (a half-measure at best), but ultimately just says, “Well, there’s no use dwelling on what could have been, is there?”

Tony rewards him for  _that_ genuine cognitive progress with the rimming of a lifetime. It means he has to remove his hand from that vulnerable neck and maneuver them both, posing Peter like a doll, but the sound he gets out the younger man is more than worth it.

He thinks of the phrase ‘to drink someone’s bathwater’ as he tastes the remnants of their talk in the tub on Peter’s skin, and laughs to himself; Tony’s just cutting out the middleman. (It’s just good business.)

Peter pants, presumably at the way Tony’s lips vibrate with his mirth, and presses himself wantonly back. Tony continues lapping at him, once again gratified. Peter's never had anything like this, he knows, and he presses that knowledge like an advantage, fully and ruthlessly, into Peter's hot little hole. Peter's wails take on a desperate pitch that resonates through the younger man's body so fully that Tony can feel it in his teeth, so he comes up for air.

“You okay?” he checks in.

“Don’t fuckin’ stop,” Peter insists. Well, then.

Tony spends the next several minutes tonguing the younger man into submission, sucking at Peter’s delicate rim and making sure he gets beard burn in all the best places. (How’s that for memorable, punk?)

When he hears Peter crying and realizes the poor thing is trembling with the effort of not rubbing himself off against Tony’s sheets, Tony lifts himself away and clambers forward onto Peter. He lines up every joint so that the side of his face presses into Peter’s. He settles his biceps over the younger man’s, insinuates his hips and legs and feet next to and in between Peter’s and lets his weight go limp until his chest is pressed to Peter’s back so fully that his reactor is tattooing a triangle into Peter’s spine.

“What are you, my shadow?” Peter asks through his overwhelmed tears.

“Yes. Stick me on with soap.”

And then they just breathe for a little while, Tony shushing in Peter’s ear as the kid’s breath and hips hitch. He waits to see if Peter will ask for anything; he’s content to lay here and keep him warm until he’s ready.

Then he thinks maybe Peter doesn’t know how to ask, so he extricates himself from the tangle of their limbs and fetches the lube.

Peter turns himself over and Tony settles between his thighs. He pets at them, at the strong muscles, because they’re shaking. He looks at Peter’s face; he’s crying again. (Still.)

It really shouldn’t be so fucking hot, so Tony looks away as he wets his fingers with the lube.

Peter, bless his heart, crooks his leg up so Tony can get at him easier and lets his eyes flutter shut as Tony rubs roughly over his pucker. He figures the kid asked for it rough, so he’ll do what he can while still making sure no damage is done.

Apropos of nothing, Peter asks, eyes still shut, “Are you gonna make me feel good?”

But Tony hears it for what it is. Peter’s really saying: “Talk to me. Tell me I’m okay.”

As if Tony needs an excuse. He pushes a finger into the smaller man on a lean forward, and dusts Peter with his words, “Of course. You could be my age and I could be eighty, and I’d still be the one protecting you. All you’ve gotta do is be good and take what I give you, you lazy thing.” Tony starts up a circular motion that he thinks Peter will like, and it shoots straight to his cock when Peter grunts and then mewls in response.

It’s like the pleasure unlocks something in Peter and Tony feels the other man’s leg curve around to butt a heel into Tony’s spine. Peter tips his head back, jaw and throat exposed, to hide his eyes before breathing out a shaky, “I can’t, I can’t without your words. Need your voice.”

Then it’s Tony’s turn to talk and he lets his inner sadist rise to toss a Socratic, “Why?”

And he’s so _so_ proud of Peter when the younger man sighs, “He didn’t sound like you at all, you know?” He’s very conversational about it, even as Tony pumps a second finger into him and sets up a spiraling rhythm to reward him.

“Okay, okay. You’re alright,” Tony replies, because he has nothing else that he knows how to say, just now.

And it is okay, because Peter’s rocking into his hand to meet him and his breathing has gone deep and fast and loud and goddamnit, Tony  _is helping_ , he knows he is. They’re gonna be alright. They have to be.

To be truthful, given the kid’s stamina, he was probably ready after the rimjob, but Tony. Maybe Tony’s not ready. Peter knows it too, and he speaks up even as he lifts his hips to fuck himself onto Tony’s fingers.

“Sir, I. I’m asking, okay; this is okay. This is what I want. I asked for this, I’m always _asking for it_ … I-”

“Are we still pretending?” Tony wonders out loud, voice going helplessly breathless. The kid sounds scared that Tony’s _not_ gonna fuck him and it makes something wild start growling in Tony’s chest. God, if he only knew; there’s not a chance.

He twists his wrist to feed the beast, and Peter chokes on it. The younger man still manages a shaky nod, though.

Time to let loose the hounds, then. Tony swallows all his delays and his feelings and his morals, locks them up so he can say what Peter needs to hear, do what Peter needs done, and fuck how Peter needs fucked. “Fine,” he says. “You _are_ always asking for it. Can’t help yourself, can you? You don’t need to explain it to me, because _I know_. I _have known_. That what you wanted to hear?”

He makes it sound like a question, but it’s really a statement of fact. For punctuation? A third finger driving into Peter, quick and dirty and probably not yet welcomed.

“ _Yes_ ,” it punches out of Peter, the way Tony had known it would.

“Are we turning back time here? Are you fifteen and gonna let me show you my ‘gratitude’ for taking down the Vulture? Huh, little punk?”

But, oh, Tony gets a surprise. “No,” Peter says. He’s opened his eyes and has them trained on Tony’s, so similar in color, as he writhes on three of Tony’s thick fingers. What a picture he is.

“No?”

Peter’s smirk is dark, lips bitten. It makes a sly slash across his face before he explains, “I’m fourteen and I’m hard at the _click_ of a lock. Aunt May’s in the next room and I’m scared of leaving the country, but more scared of disappointing you.”

That’s. That’s so fucking sick. Tony withdraws and he sees the uncertainty flash in Peter’s eyes. He must be thinking, 'Oh shit, was that too much?' (It _was_ , but.)

Tony puts paid to that uncertainty as he rearranges their positions. “Do as I say, not as I do, got it? Use condoms. Every time. Okay?”

“Wha-what?” Peter manages to get out before Tony lines up and slams home inside him. He _did_ say he wanted it to hurt.

They both groan and Tony drops his forehead to Peter’s collarbone. He’s taller than Peter, but the younger man’s torso is longer; besides, there’s no height in horizontal.

The last person he fucked was Pepper and this is so _different_ , in big ways and small. Tighter, hotter, drier but also little things. Like, Peter’s grip on his shoulder is bruising and his nails are blunt and unmanicured, and the gasp he gives is breathy, but clearly masculine. It keeps him here in the present, that difference.

Struck by the idea, Tony lifts up and forces Peter to turn his head toward the window even as he starts moving. Tony uses his bruising grasp on Peter’s hip, and his matching one on Peter’s jaw, to brace himself as he sets up a jackknifing motion that he would only dare use on someone of Peter’s abilities.

His brain skitters away from that thought, at the corollary to it. (When did he have time during his failed marriage to think about fucking other superheroes?)

It doesn’t even matter, because Peter’s eyes are wide and no longer crying; the pupils are blown with desire and _Tony did that_. That has to be enough, and this time it’s himself who Tony rewards as he nearly strains his back fucking into Peter’s heat. It draws more sounds from that sweet mouth, and Tony feels the need to explain why he’s holding such a pair of blissful lips down and away from him.

“I want you to look out that fucking window, Pete, and see. See it? It’s not fucking Italy. It’s New York City out there. Our city.”

Peter’s more than strong enough to throw Tony’s hand off, but he doesn’t, doesn’t try to turn his head. He just opens his mouth and lets Tony’s fingers get sucked into his next wet breath. He nods, listless, and Tony tries not to take it personally. He just riffs off it, interrupting his own rhythm to hitch Peter’s legs more firmly around his own hips.

Peter helps minutely, tightening his thighs and digging his heels more firmly into the small of Tony’s back, but mostly he just lets himself be used, be filled up like a cup.

He’d asked for words, so Tony taps into his gift of gab to gut out, “You’re so fucking good, Peter. You don’t even know, can’t know. I need to clone you so you can fuck yourself someday, Christ, you’re a goddamn tragedy. You should be _ashamed_ that you kept this from me for all these years.”

His gambit works and Peter shudders, shapes his mouth around Tony’s fingers to say, “Thank you, thank you, sir. I, I, I didn’t know… would you have done this, then? You wouldn't have let me go- I didn't want to go- You wouldn't have let anyone hurt me?”

(No.) “Yes, you fucking _twink_ . What do you think I was thinking about, all those times when I had you strip down to sensors to run benchmarks on your skin-tight suit, huh?” (Mostly math and making sure no one died.) "I would never, even now, I would never let  _anyone else_ hurt you. You're mine, you're mine to hurt, mine to heal."

It’s working, life coming back into Peter’s face as Tony continues his frantic, grinding pace. He doesn’t know if it’s the forced praise or the thickness breaching the younger man's tight ass, but Peter’s cheeks are flushing and he’s finally fought back against Tony’s grip to press their foreheads together. Tony’s switched his long, sliding thrusts for short, grinding ones; he can barely stand to leave the clutch of Peter’s body and says as much.

“Yes, yes, yes,” Peter returns, feverish with the praise, and then he starts up begging with, “...please, please, please,” and Tony thinks they might be alright for real.

But, just for insurance, he plasters their chests together, stretching forward so he can stay so so so deep and can keep their faces close, despite the mismatch of their torso lengths. Tony cups his hands under Peter’s shoulders and uses the boy as leverage to grind against him, glancing off the spot that makes Peter grip Tony back like his life depends on it.

He’s pretty sure they’re both going to be sore tomorrow, given that Tony’s forearms are already protesting at carrying his weight at this odd angle, but this time it’s Peter who’s biting into Tony’s shoulder so fuck it; he’s not changing a thing.

All he does is re-center to try and hit that spot again, and when he finds it he intends to camp there.

They must be mind-melding because Peter is keening and then he’s laughing at himself. He says, “Wow, who’s screaming?” in a faint voice and then, on one of Tony’s particularly brutal thrusts, “ _Fuck_ , I think you should fucking set up shop inside me; you’re not allowed to leave. You have, uh- uh- uh-”

“Squatter’s rights?”

“Hey, _fuck you_ ,” Peter retaliates for that, or tries to, but mostly he just drools a stream of vowels and consonants; Tony’s familiar enough with the tone to get the gist.

Tony takes that as his cue, and he quits the grind to pull back and lift Peter’s right leg onto his shoulder. He needs to put them both out of their shared misery. Peter’s enhanced senses have gifted him with a veritable pool of pre-come that has gathered in the lines of his abs, and Tony swipes through it to test the edge of where he’s disappearing into the younger man, adding just enough slickness to see them through the home stretch.

“That’s disgustingly hot,” Peter admits on the back end of a choked-off moan. He lifts his other leg to Tony’s shoulder himself.

“Stick with me, kid. I’ll teach you all the tricks,” Tony says, grin cocky despite how close he is.

Peter braces himself against the bed with his legendary flexibility and finally, _finally_ fucks Tony back.

“Yes, Mr. Stark,” he grounds out, with a smile.

At that, Tony’s hand zips to grip Peter’s leaking cock like it’s been stuck there with a magnet. The 'Mr. Stark' thing gets to him, always has. (Always will.)

“No one’s ever fucked you like this and no one ever will, except me, do you know that, Peter? Tell me you know. Tell me you know that I don’t care _who_ you fuck or who you let fuck you; this is the only way it counts. It’s perfect, you’re perfect-”

He hits the kid’s prostate and Peter makes a broken, affirmative noise and bites his lip as he clenches and comes between them. There's so much of it after all the buildup and Tony's fist bears the brunt of it and Peter, easily oversensitive, pulls Tony's hand to his mouth just to get it off him. Then Peter bites into the sensitive webbing, slurping afterwards and meeting Tony's eyes like porn come alive and this kid-

He’s still coming, milking Tony’s cock for all he’s worth as Tony doses him with the last little bit of medicinal words; he has to get them out to keep his sanity, so he bites out, “This is the way it was always gonna be, see? So anything else? Not your fault. Not your fault at all. Me fucking you into a parallel fucking universe is _fate_. Fucking fate, take it, that’s it-”

Tony lets Peter’s shaking legs fall and grinds forward to smooth Peter’s damp curls away from his forehead. Peter is breathing like a dying racehorse, but he manages to murmur, “It was always gonna be you, Mr. Stark. Thank you, thank you, love you, please come with me, please sir, come on-”

Tony groans and gasps and follows the kid into sin.

Maybe if Tony keeps his eyes on Peter and doesn’t look back, if he just lets the orgasm black him out-

If he just lets Peter have everything he has to give-

Just forces him to take it, erase every bleeding inch of anyone who would ever hurt him-

Maybe no one else will follow them down to hell.

(Abandon hope, all ye who enter here.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all. I can't do one shots or real smut. Let's all just acknowledge that and move on.
> 
> I hope the end was worth it? Idk. I tried.


End file.
